Camelback

Friday's have been slow, especially toward the end of the market session. So today I packed up an hour early and climbed up Camelback Mountain. Well, not all the way up. You get to know when your body says, "I'm too young to die," and its time to turn back down.

At a spectacular view of the desert below, I think about the last night we slept together. It has become one of those moments to remember as it is too revealing, too eloquent, to let go. I wrote about one in a previous post:

The closest we ever were as a couple were those special moments on the dance floor, sometimes just locked in a deep passionate kiss....

We were far into our Sunday night, our TV night. The shows and movies were over, the television was off and we were under the covers. I was mostly asleep. She was mostly awake. Out of a quickly forgotten dream, I felt her fingers on my back, up and down, back and forth, slow and methodical. I wondered at first if she was trying to wake me for a quiet, fleeting moment of intimacy. No, her touch was too gentle, too soft, too personal. She loves me, she loves me not. She loves me, she loves me not. She loves me, she loves me not.

I knew that if I awoke, she would retreat, feeling smothered and seek distance. So I didn't stir. I did not want her light, sweet touch to stop, to disappear. Another man might awake and turn toward her. But another man would not be beside her, not this night.

I continue down Camelback, having not reached the peak, full of the memory, the magic, the melody of her touch. She loves me. She loves me not.